2010+Poetry

Paste your poetry submissions here. Be sure to include the Title, Your Name, and the Body of the Piece. Leave space between each submission please.

** The Elephant in the Room ** by Angela Mitchell Ignore the elephant in the room, pretend that he’s not there. That way our problems will dissipate cleanly into the air.

It’s too much trouble to deal with him, and he’s not in the way at all. Just march around him, step over his girth, but be careful not to fall!

Pretend that his waste doesn’t leave a stench, tightly plug your nose if you must. This exempts you from ever admitting you’re wrong, never say you’re sorry, or BUST!

After awhile you get tired of it, the awkwardness of it all. But since that’s the way that it’s always been, you learn to adjust to the pain you are in.

So ignore the elephant in the room, you can do it if you try.

One day you will all have homes of your own. You’ll know how to deal with the problems of life, success will be yours, and the absence of strife, you’ll reap rich fruit from the seeds we have sown, by ignoring the elephant in the room.

by Angela Mitchell Life is too short to hold a grudge; to build up walls of bitterness that hinder me from experiencing the freedom of forgiveness.
 * Life is too Short **

Life is too full to hide behind walls that keep me safe, because those same walls also imprison and isolate.

Life is too challenging to travel solo; to try to do it all on my own without the love and support of my friends and family.

Life is too sweet to not embrace the moment; to remain emotionally detached, because this encapsulation prevents me from enjoying life to its fullest.

Life is too fleeting to maintain a hectic pace; to refuse to slow down and savor life’s simple pleasures just because I have a job to do.

Life is too short, too full, too challenging, too sweet, and too fleeting, for me to live a life that leaves room for regret.

Through experience I have learned that should I live one hundred years, life is simply too short.

** Symphony ** by Angela Mitchell //I// am the conductor of the orchestra. The elements of the lesson make up my percussion section; they drive and support the melody of the learning process. My students are the musicians. As they follow the instructions of my baton, their minds ponder and create to the rhythm of the drums which pulsate with an appeal to the various learning styles, seeking to draw out the unique, subtle undertones of the various side melodies weaving in and out to form the whole, as we make beautiful music together.

Sometimes the music finds its outlet through written expression. The edgier sound of persuasive writing contrasts aggressively with the more structured technical and expository tones, while riveting fiction and personal narrative linger in the air, adding emotional connections that leave indelible imprints upon the mind’s ear.

Forces from within and without temporarily disrupt our harmony; broken strings and missed notes delay and distract us from our goal. But with an intentional sweep of my wand, our eyes reconnect; our purpose for learning gains solidarity once more. As I compassionately redirect my musicians, our individual melodies gain strength and intertwine; the music crescendos once again, swells victoriously, and fills the hallowed hall. I //am// the conductor of the orchestra.

by Angela Mitchell I once heard a teacher say to her class, “Use what you know to solve this problem.” That one statement stuck with me because … how many times do we try to operate high above - and separate from - what we are familiar with?
 * // Use What You Know //**

We trip over ourselves, straining and pushing to reach a goal, attempting to use tools we have never trained with, and are ill-equipped to use just like David attempting to use Saul’s over-sized armor when he faced Goliath. He found it wasn’t practical to use equipment that doesn’t fit.

We need to tap into who we are, and use what we know to build a bridge over to what we do not understand - to allow the knowledge and experience we possess //today// to be the starting point that will propel us forward to where we want to end up //tomorrow//. We must learn to walk before we run.

Spring Cleaning by Nancy Sturm Folded neatly, tucked away Within dark drawers Lie tees, shorts, socks Waiting to be worn. Everyday clothing Donned for all to see.

Like the everyday faces We wear: Smiles, nods, pleasant looks, Donned for all to see.

What lurks in the back of the drawer Never unfolded Never worn Waiting to be cleaned?

What lurks In the back of the mind? Painful memories, Wounds folded neatly, Shoved to the back of the drawer, Hidden in dark recesses.

How do we Clean the crannies Of dark, wrinkled memories Cluttering the drawers Of our minds?

Kisses by Meg Rice

Expectant fingers fumble, Blue lettering on white pull-strip, tease, Kisses, Kisses, Kisses.

Twisted foil wrapper sings its crinkling song, Inviting my greedy appetite. “Open me, open me faster.”

Light glints as silver folds Release a soft, smooth, brown, Conical drop of chocolate.

Provocative scent escapes. Salivating uncontrollably, I must admit, I //did// inhale.

Cool, flat morsel melted, The instant my tongue Caressed its silken sweetness.

Fingers, covered in chocolate, Bypass the cleansing tongue To reach for another.

= Times Gone By By Adrienne Stenholm Grass flutters, Kansas wind blows past the girl--twirling-- bare arms outstretched, reaching for nothing in particular. Young, smooth neck bent, head thrown back, face toward the clear blue sky, eyes closed, basking in morning sunlight. Spinning Spinning Light skirt a billowing circle, rhythm established to internal music celebrating no school— no bothers— youth. ** A Mother and Her Son **A Two-Voice poem by Tim Garrels //Mother://**//Together://** Of goodness, warmth and being. //Son:// Contented – that is the word that describes the joy I have in her arms; she is my source. **//Together://**//Mother:// I hold him in my arms – he is young. //Son:// I fall asleep in her arms – she watches over me. //Mother:// Amazed – that is the word that describes the joy I have in him; his features are so delicate. **//Together//**//:// They exhibit such a detailed, intricate creation. //Son:// Wonderful – that is the word that describes the joy I have in her arms; she holds me with hands. **//Together//**//:// That exhibit such a detailed, intricate creation. //Mother:// I wrap him in blankets – he is young. //Son:// I feel safe in the myriad number of blankets – she watches over me. //Mother:// Mother – that is the word that describes my relationship to him; he is and always shall be. **//Together//**//:////Son:// Son – that is the word that describes my relationship to her; she is and always shall be. **//Together//**//:// My mother. Proud – that is the word that describes the joy I have in him; he is my reflection. Of goodness, warmth and being. My son.=

**In the land of the free.**
Dear My Love By Patrick Kennedy

Dear my love, how’s the night find you this eve? I dreamt your face beneath moon’s glowing light. In tranquil sleep that me did sadly leave With but a glimpse of your enduring sight.

For while I’ve seen wondrous and magic realms, Felt awe beyond what waking world can show, My senses your sight greatly overwhelms Lets my heart know joy can truly be so.

Fret not that you’re not here with me this day – For still I wait hoping you would find me, End time when you must be from me away, And bring ever after, most happily.

One day, with luck, such love with end our plight Till then I’ll dream you when I sleep at night.


 * ==== Gulf Oil Mess ====

||
 * ==== by Erin McClung ==== ||
 * ==== Voice 1 ==== || ==== Voice 2 ==== ||
 * ==== It was an accident ==== || ==== It was an accident ==== ||
 * ==== we didn't know ==== || ==== ==== ||
 * ==== ==== || ==== they didn't know ==== ||
 * ==== how bad ==== || ==== how bad ==== ||
 * ==== how much ==== || ==== how much ==== ||
 * ==== the shame ==== || ==== ==== ||
 * ==== ==== || ==== the fear ==== ||
 * ==== would hurt ==== || ==== would hurt ==== ||
 * ==== how much? ==== || ==== ==== ||
 * ==== ==== || ==== how long? ==== ||
 * ==== we tried ==== || ==== ==== ||
 * ==== ==== || ==== they said they tried ==== ||
 * ==== it just kept flowing ==== || ==== it just kept flowing ==== ||
 * ==== plan A didn't work ==== || ==== ==== ||
 * ==== ==== || ==== it kept getting closer ==== ||
 * ==== the coast just miles away ==== || ==== the coast just miles away ==== ||
 * ==== ==== || ==== not after Katrina! ==== ||
 * ==== ==== || ==== we can't handle more. ==== ||
 * ==== What next? ==== || ==== ==== ||
 * ==== Who's thinking? ==== || ==== ==== ||
 * ==== ==== || ==== What are they doing? ==== ||
 * ==== Oh No! It hit the beach. ==== || ==== Oh No! It hit the beach. ==== ||
 * ==== The cost is enormous ==== || ==== ==== ||
 * ==== ==== || ==== Our boats can't go out. ==== ||
 * ==== What are we going to do? ==== || ==== What are we going to do? ==== ||
 * ==== the media ==== || ==== ==== ||
 * ==== ==== || ==== my family ==== ||
 * ==== the government ==== || ==== ==== ||
 * ==== ==== || ==== my livelihood ==== ||
 * ==== the company ==== || ==== ==== ||
 * ==== ==== || ==== my life ==== ||
 * ==== Plan B ==== || ==== Plan B ==== ||
 * ==== top kill ==== || ==== ==== ||
 * ==== ==== || ==== top kill? ==== ||
 * ==== ==== || ==== golf balls and hair? ==== ||
 * ==== What the hell? ==== || ==== What the hell? ==== ||
 * ==== It didn't work. ==== || ==== ==== ||
 * ==== ==== || ==== It didn't work. ==== ||
 * ==== The oil keeps gushing ==== || ==== The oil keeps gushing ==== ||
 * ==== gushing ==== || ==== gushing ==== ||
 * ==== gushing ==== || ==== gushing ==== ||
 * ==== our money ==== || ==== ==== ||
 * ==== ==== || ==== my life ==== ||
 * ==== gushing ==== || ==== gushing ==== ||
 * ==== gushing ==== || ==== gushing ==== ||

Rock Island Courtyard AS Pameticky

Sounds blend together of urban and natural, birds speaking across buildings, trees telling secrets in the breeze, traffic inescapable, car engines humming, and the slight squeal of tires gripping asphalt. The heat melts the ink on the page; the sweat sliding down my neck and arms and back. I can taste exhaust fumes.

I remember the 3rd floor art gallery housed in the Ole Mercantile across from me, and at 1020, I wish I could take us all upstairs to sit in the cool hush of the studio show room. The walls made me want to be an artist painting long lines of memory and color.

There are shades of brick all around, like the heart of a burning matchstick, and the dark rust of earth tones. The memories overlap with what I can see today: the blue’s crawl several years ago with ID bracelets that let us get into any venue we wanted, back when Matt Walsh lived here and played with the Mad Dogs. There was a tall genius of a bassist slapping out rhythms Chicago-style, and I think of him now and wonder where the music goes when there’s no one playing?

I see the reclaimed brick walls here in the square, and I’m taken even further back. I remember the coffee shop down from my house in Stillwater, the house with no real foundation, just cinder block legs and a skunk named Steve that moved in to the spacious alcove below. Steve turned out to be Stevette, and we would crouch at the window and watch as the footprint trails would spell hidden, secret messages.

I remember the coffee shop down from my house in Stillwater, the over-stuffed brown faux-leather chairs— chairs to sink into and disappear. If I leaned forward, I was a part of the ad hoc conversation: Nietzche and Kant, Wordsworth and Emerson. Leaning back, I wanted a little separation, and people would leave me to my thoughts. I remember dark corners and sections with secrets, and the music that shaped my mind, Norah Jones and Johnny Cash, Tori Amos and Ani Defranco. I secretly believe they are still my friends.

The memories overlap with what I can be today: Tasting exhaust fumes, Sounds of urban life and tenacious birds chirping and chatting across the heights, trees telling secrets in the breeze, The heat melts the ink on the page; the sweat sliding down my neck and arms and back.

The Day We Turned Eighteen By Patrick Kennedy

The day I turned eighteen, I ventured off to school. The day you turned eighteen, you were already off at war.

I grudgingly learned principles of Calculus, Physics, and Government You proudly learned principles to defend man, God, and country.

I sat at lunch talking nonsense with classmates and friends, You sat at lunch talking of, longing for home with brothers in arms.

I registered on-line hoping it a symbolic and futile activity, You registered in person feeling it a necessity and obligation.

I watched TV, lost in a colorful wonder of delightful fantasy, You watched men fight, lost in a horrid, bleak nightmare.

I lay in my bed, kept awake by stress over tomorrow’s test You lay in your bunk, kept awake by tomorrow’s unimaginable possibilities.

I slept knowing my world would be the same come sunrise, You slept wondering if you would have one.

The day you turned eighteen, I’m know you couldn’t think of me, But the day I turned eighteen, I couldn’t help but to think of you.

I am From Smooth Cotton Sheets AS Pameticky I am from smooth cotton sheets, from Borax and elbow grease. I am from apartment complexes with names like //Sugarberry, Sugarcreek,// and //Sugartree;// shared pools and playgrounds, and single-girl kittens. I am from the rose bushes with said kittens buried underneath, I am from red dirt and scrub brush and sweltering summers. I am from the loudest group of women this side of the Rocky Mountains, and we’ll be sure to let you know! I am from, //I won’t take crap from no one//, and, //move over, buddy, we’re coming through//, to //your life would be SO much better if you just did what we told you!// I am from Holy Mother Church and Holy Ghost of Fire. I am from Uncle Rudi’s //rosmullion// and the Trail of Tears. I am from sour kraut at Thanksgiving to fry bread on the 4th of July, From summer Pow Wows to //Oktoberfest// And Uncle Roger’s handcrafted wheat.

He wandered lonely wondering why, across Beaver bridge, soaking up silent sky.
 * The Journey (Goes with Meg's photos of the man and the cabin) **
 * By Erin McClung **

He did not know where his travels would take him, or how the forest had quickly passed.

His feet took over. His head blank. The cabin approached around the corner he came.

He stared at the porch frozen stiff. The pain too much, the loss still thrashing his heart.

Memories flooded tears rolled. He sat on the bench too hurt to feel frigid cold.

Tomorrow he’d do it. Through the door. But today it can’t happen, so close he had come.

Silence swallowed his steps as he walked from his home; on land his great-great grandfather bought

when the west was young. It’s lost now forever, the end has come, his battle over.

His duties finished Family Rejected, failure in place, he wanders quite lonely The owner replaced.

A poem for two voices by Patrice Hein
 * The Grass and the Sea **

A vast expanse of green A vast expanse of blue Long ago I was a sea Someday I may not be Mole crickets, pronghorns, cattle Phytoplankton, turtles, tuna The water drained away Toxins and trash flow in
 * Wind ripples the waves **
 * Millions of organisms depend on me**
 * It's all a circle, including you **
 * People don't seem to understand **
 * I am where life begins **

 Life Song by Rhonda Dowty

His eyes are smiling. The corners curl upward in a graceful even swoop, like birds taking flight or twin lazy-slivered moons. The deep ripples of dark water beneath the heavy lids hold secrets and wisdom. His ruddy cheeks reveal the harsh weather, which roughens his skin and hardens his resilience. A faded mustache and short, coarse beard suggest a man of substance – a man whose livelihood is derived from the land or the sea. He wears a cloak of solitude. It clings to him like the salt drifting from a mist above the ocean. It covers any tenderness or flaw and becomes a shield against probing looks and inquisitive minds. His story is his own. It is not for sale, to be read in an interest column, or broadcast on a flickering screen. His experiences surpass the words on a page. His knowledge supersedes the rolling film. Instead, his life is a song. It echoes in the crashing of the waves and the roaring of the wind. In rhythm with nature’s melody, his eyes smile.

Charlene AS Pameticky I know that my dog is a cliché, a walking fur ball of loyalty and friendship. Even so, she deserves a poem on occasion, an ode filled with sentimental drippings and love. Black as ink, white soul-patch for wisdom, constant wagging pom-pom, she’s an armful of heat and bad breath. Fur grows between her toes, and out of her ears, and everywhere--dreadlocks up in whorls and snarls of tangled knots. She’s an eager doggy smile and pink lolling tongue, and the perfect pushy companion when I can’t crawl out of bed. I know that she’ll die someday; such is the way of faithful dogs, but I’m not ready to face the loneliness and grief—and maybe I hate her, resent the feelings when she’s curled beside me, ooching into the warm spot I occupy. Maybe I hate her a little for making me love her and take care of her. Such is the way of faithful dog owners, vulnerable in our ecstatic love, urged on to care for damp noses by the restless beatings of our hearts.

Patrice Hein
 * Clues in brick and stone**

They're mostly rectangles made of brick. Some with ornamentation at their tops, bricks rising to a peak, capped with native limestone. Nothing too extravagant, no gargoyles or Corinthian columns, just simple, sensible extras in a conservative, utilitarian kind of way. There's a rust-colored star way up at the top of one building, set almost centered near the bottom of a huge limestone block. If one looks closely, all kinds of symbols are hidden here and there on these old buildings: cryptic initials, carvings, petroglyphs. What do they mean? Are they clues or messages left by the builders? The owners? The masons? Are they wishes for good fortune or warnings of danger?

If This Building Could Talk By Micki Fryhover

If I were to share a story with you, which of course I’m not, I might tell you to hang around the hallways during passing period. If I were to advise you about a kid who might be struggling at home, I might maybe suggest you hang around the lunch room at school.If you listen closely, you can hear whispers drifting down the halls, leaving lasting echoes of “accidents” and mumbles of “You don’t know him. He didn’t mean it” or “he only hits me when he’s been drinking” or “I must have done something to make him mad.” If you listen closely, you might hear slivers of splintered conversations as students enter the classroom about how D.’s step-monster doesn’t feed him when she’s pissed.

If I were to share a story with you, which of course I’m not, I might tell you to hang around the teacher’s desk as her (or his) students come up with welling tears in their eyes and quietly whisper, “Can I talk to you for a minute?” If I were to advise you about a kid who might be struggling at home, I might maybe suggest you casually lean outside the counselor’s office. There is usually a student or teacher in there with worries or true horror stories or concern or needing someone to listen or just give a crap. I might even recommend you look over someone’s shoulder as they read their e-mail labeled with a red flag and the word “Confidential” that tells of yet another student who has been placed at the children’s home, and has no clothes, shoes, or supplies. No hope.

Then I might say, “Come talk to me.”